


Only Human

by watanuki_sama



Series: Steeped In Sin [4]
Category: Common Law
Genre: 5+1 Things, Demon!Wes, Gen, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Travis feels inadequate, being only human. Wes sees it differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Human

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on ff.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 01.15.16.
> 
> This happened when I listened to too many repeats of Christina Perri’s “Only Human”. I couldn’t help myself.

_“You’re only human, and humans are not supernatural.”_   
_—Unknown_

\---

1.

\---

The first time Travis sees Wes’s superstrength in action, it is exactly three days after they are partnered together, when Wes, stymied by the demon-warding sigils on the building they’re trying to get into, instead picks up a 100-pound barrel with one hand and throws it through the wall. 

(This is also the first clue that Wes has no concept of _restraint_ and, in a rare change of pace, Travis might actually be the sane, reasonable one in this relationship, but that’s a story for another day.)

Travis’s first though, upon seeing that barrel go through the wall, is _Cool_.

That reaction hasn’t changed much since.

The superstrength is one of those traits Wes throws around all the fucking time. Which, okay, if _Travis_ had superstrength he’d use it for everything he possibly could, so he has no right to be tossing stones here. The superstrength is actually one of Wes’s demonic traits Travis is actually a little jealous he _doesn’t_ have, because how cool is that? Travis has seen Wes do everything from kicking walls down to lifting cars up on two wheels (not above his head, which would be _cooler than cool_ , but even two wheels is awesome).

It’s a good trait to have, really, because Wes doesn’t _look_ like much. His body is a skinny, pale beanpole—more of a runner’s build than anything. People who don’t know the truth have a tendency to underestimate Wes, which has, on occasion, been very, _very_ helpful. And, for the most part, Travis has gotten used to being the weak, squishy little human. On good days he’s even mostly okay with not being super strong and able to lift cars and toss grown men around the room like kittens.

Today is not one of those days.

“Gonna kill him,” Travis grunts, pushing at the beam pinning his legs again. Like the last ten times he tried, it doesn’t budge an inch. “Gonna fucking kill him _dead_.”

He’s not entirely sure if he’s talking about the fucker that rigged his house to blow up if someone came calling, or Wes, who went around back and _still_ hasn’t shown up to save him. Either way, someone is going to be _dead_ when Travis is done with them.

At least nothing is on fire. Small consolation when Travis is trapped beneath the remains of a fucking _house_ , but he figures he ought to take his blessings where he can.

“Superstrength would really come in handy right about now,” Travis grunts, thrusting all of his weight against the beam. He gets exactly nada from it, because the beam is the size of his waist and weighs about three times what he does.

Groaning, he lets his head thump back, glaring at the remains of wall above him. He was lucky, at least, that the beam didn’t _completely_ crush him but instead got caught on a chunk of concrete. Enough to pin him in place and keep him immobile, which just means he’s been stuck here for like twenty minutes.

If Wes was the one who’d gone through the front door, he’d already be out of here by now. Instead, Wes went around back because he won the rock-paper-scissors. Travis is pretty sure he cheated. He’s not entirely sure _how_ someone could cheat at rock-paper-scissors, but if anyone could do it it’s a demon.

“Gonna kill him,” he mutters again, pushing at the beam. 

This time it moves.

Travis is so stunned, he freezes, staring at the beam. “What?” He’s been pushing at this thing for twenty minutes, and _now_ it decides to move? Travis has either developed superstrength himself, or he’s loosened it. Somehow, he’s not betting on the former.

And then he hears a rumble, and a groan, and a crashing sort of sound, and then a chunk of the wall above his head is torn away and Travis is blinking at the silhouette of a head against a too-bright sky. A familiar voice calls, “Travis?” and is that his imagination or does Wes sound a little frantic?

“Bout damn time!” he hollers, because there’s really only one proper response to being dug out of a hole by his partner.

The silhouette visibly relaxes, and then, with minimal dislodging of rubble, Wes climbs down into the hole beside Travis. He studies the beam pinning Travis for a second, puts his hands on two spots, and lifts like it’s made of fucking Styrofoam.

Superstrength. Hot damn. Travis totally isn’t jealous at _all_.

There’s not a lot of wiggle room, but it’s enough for Travis to shimmy out from under the beam. Thankfully, he can still feel his toes and whatnot, and aside from some scrapes and a truly impressive collection of bruises he’ll be carrying around, he’s fine.

Travis grimaces at his partner. “What took you so long?”

“There was a lot of rubble, Travis. I’d think you’d be more appreciative to the guy who just saved your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah. Help me out of this hole, will ya?” With some maneuvering and a bit of hoisting, Travis is back in fresh air, awkwardly picking his way through the remains of the house. He probably won’t kill Wes today, he decides, because Wes _did_ crawl through rubble and get his suit all torn and dirty to rescue Travis. Which just leaves…

“Let’s find the bastard that did this and _get_ him,” he growls.

Beside him, Wes grins, eyes gleaming like an oil slick. “Sounds like a plan.”

\---

2.

\---

When Wes gets annoyed, he’ll do one of three things: 1) His eyes will turn black, just a split second, like a staticy old TV, flicker-flash, flicker-flash. 2) He’ll ignore the object of his annoyance (which, let’s be honest here, is usually Travis), and Travis can testify, no one gives the cold shoulder like a demon with a grudge. Or 3) he’ll use his demonic powers to make things fly into the person that annoyed him (again, this is typically Travis).

The fifth time a drawer flies open and bangs him in the shin as he’s walking past, Travis has had enough.

“Alright, man, I give up.” Travis throws himself into his chair, scowling at his partner. “What did I do?”

Wes looks up, and for a demon forged in the fires of Hell, he’s sure got a convincing innocent face. “Do?”

“Don’t give me that, you know what I’m talking about. I’m sorry for whatever I did to piss you off.” Normally, Travis is pretty good about figuring out what he did, but he’s got no clue this time. But hey, blanket apologies can’t hurt.

“I don’t think it counts if you don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” Wes snarks.

So much for that.

“How come you never do that when we’re out in the field?” he wonders. When in doubt, distract him.

“Do what?”

“You know.” Travis waves a hand. “Your telekinetic thing. Man, that would be so damn handy. Just yank the bad guys’ weapons out of their hands.” He makes a vague grabbing motion, with accompanying sound effects.

Wes gives him his patented _You’re so stupid how did you ever survive to adulthood_ stare. “Do you know how reckless that would be? You want guns and knives waving around midair?”

“Reckless?” Travis returns Wes’s stare with an incredulous one of his own. “Seriously? Who’s the one who almost got blown up last week? You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“I do too know the meaning of the word,” Wes sniffs haughtily.

“Ah, I see. You just ignore it.”

“I’m a _demon_ , Travis. It’s not going to kill me. But you—” Wes’s mouth snaps shut so fast he almost bites his tongue, cutting off whatever he was about to say. _That_ piques Travis’s interest.

He leans forward. “I’m…what?”

Wes’s eyes go black, flicker-flash, and he tightens his jaw. “Nothing.”

“No, no, I’m curious now. I’m what? Charming? Funny? Dashingly good-looking?”

“Human,” Wes sighs. “You’re _human_.”

Travis feels a sharp little jolt run through his chest. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Maybe Wes can hear something in his voice, because all of a sudden he looks a little uncomfortable. He shifts and doesn’t look at Travis. “I’m a demon. There’s not a lot that can hurt me. But you’re human. Waving guns around…what if one of them went off? It’s reckless.”

For a second, Travis forgot what they were talking about in the first place, so hurt by Wes’s reminder that Travis is just a squishy, weak, vulnerable little human. Not enough that that’s something that crosses Travis’s mind on a near-daily basis, no, now he’s got his partner pointing out his flaws too.

He does what he always does when this sort of thing comes up. He shoves it aside to dwell on later. (And by ‘later’ he means ‘never’, if he’s got any say in the matter.)

Travis props his chin on his palms and bats his eyes at Wes. “You like me.”

The demon rears back, blinking furiously. “What? No I don’t.”

“You _do_. You don’t want me to get _hurt_. You _liiike_ me…”

Wes glares at him. A second later the phone receiver jumps up and whaps him in the face.

Okay, he kind of deserved that one.

\---

3\. 

\---

The third time Travis’s gaze sweeps the bar, he spots Wes, and now he understands why it’s taken ten minutes to get a couple of beers. A pretty brunette in a white sequined top has cornered Wes, leaning up against the blonde in the way of frisky drunk girls everywhere. Wes is frowning at her, telling her off probably, and he’s wearing his _I’ve said this four times already Travis why aren’t you listening?_ face. For once, it’s not actually aimed Travis’s direction.

As Travis watches, Wes gently pushes the drunk girl off, grabs his beers from the countertop, and makes a break for it. By the time he wends his way back to their table, Travis is grinning at his partner.

“She was cute.” He happily accepts the bottle Wes offers, even if it is only non-alcoholic beer, because they are on a stakeout and being drunk while working is kind of frowned upon. “Did you get her number?”

“What?” Wes asks blankly. Travis nods towards the bar, where the brunette has found a new guy to hang all over. Wes follows his gaze and his face clears. “Oh, her. No, she wasn’t hitting on me. She wanted to make a deal.”

Travis chokes on his fake beer. “A deal?” He frowns into his bottle. “For what, like, drugs? If they’re selling drugs here we really ought to tell Narcotics.”

Wes has many variations of his _Travis you’re an idiot_ look. This one if flavor #7, _I can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose but it’s really fucking annoying_. “No,” he says slowly, “she wanted to make a Deal.”

This time Travis can hear the capital letter drop, and realization dawns. “ _Oh_. Right. A _deal_.” He takes a sip of his beer and glances at the brunette working the bar again. “What, uh, what did you tell her?”

“I’m working. Couldn’t help her.” Wes adds, almost as an afterthought, “I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I haven’t made a deal in decades.”

Travis grins. “You’re rusty?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Travis eyes the brunette once more. All he can see from here is a twenty-something who’s had too much to drink. “How’d she even know? We’re on a stakeout, I’m assuming you weren’t flashing your eyes.”

“From what I can tell, she’s asking anyone and everyone.” Wes shrugs. “Bars are a good place to find desperate people willing to give up their souls, so a lot of demons will end up here. We don’t all hang at the crossroads, Travis.”

“Huh.” Travis picks at the label of his shitty non-alcoholic beer. Wes gets the real stuff, lucky bastard, because alcohol doesn’t affect him the way it does normal human people. “So what can you do with a deal? Like, what can you grant people?”

“Pretty much anything,” Wes replies absently, scanning the bar. Travis hastily scans the bar as well, searching for their guy. Can’t forget why they’re _actually_ here.

“Like what? Can you cure cancer? Make me rich and famous? Make me devilishly handsome?”

“For the low, low price of your soul, yes, yes, and…there are limits to even what magic can do.” Wes smiles insincerely with the jab.

Travis kicks him under the table.

“So,” he asks a few minutes later, “do you really kiss people?”

Wes hardly glances over. “To seal the contract, yes.”

Travis tries to imagine Wes kissing someone. He can’t quite manage it. Wes is just… _Wes_. Wes doesn’t kiss people.

He takes a sip of his beer to cover his thoughts. “Even guys?”

“I’m a demon, gender doesn’t mean much of anything.” Wes pauses, eyes flickering black for just a second, and then he turns to scowl at Travis. “You can’t make a deal, Travis.”

“That’s totally not what I—” Travis stops abruptly, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, _can’t?_ I could make a deal if I wanted to.”

“No, you can’t.” All smug superiority, Wes leans back, smirking around his bottle. “All the local demons will turn you away. They know what I’d do to them.”

Travis can’t decide if he’s charmed or pissed off. Wes warning other demons off is a little creepy and possessive, but Travis has by now gotten used to Wes’s particular demonic brand of affection. But the fact that he even thought Travis would go there, that Travis would become one of the desperate masses willing to give up his _soul_ for something…

No, he’s decided, he’s actually kind of hurt by that. 

“Is that our guy?” he asks, prompting Wes to glance over. It’s not their guy, but it’s enough of a distraction to change the subject. 

Doesn’t make Travis feel particularly better, though.

\---

4.

\---

“Have you ever noticed,” Travis wonders mildly, as Thug #1 drags him down the hall, “that we always get the stupid crazy cases?”

Wes snorts disdainfully, stumbling as Thug #2 yanks him a little too hard. “They aren’t that crazy.”

“Shut up,” Thug #1 snaps, giving Travis a good shake.

Travis, being Travis, ignores this demand. “They are too! No one else gets captured as much as we do! Or shot at, or nearly exploded, or held hostage, or tied to chairs and beaten up.” He sighs. “I bet Kate and Amy don’t have these problems.”

“I’m going to fucking shoot you both if you don’t fucking shut up,” Thug #2 grumbles. Travis is pretty sure he’s joking. Well. Mostly sure. Maybe 67%.

Wes scoffs at Travis. “Kate and Amy are boring.”

“Ah. Now I understand where the confusion lies. Kate and Amy aren’t _boring_ , Wes. Kate and Amy are _sane_. There is a difference, you see.”

Wes makes a tiny _‘tch’_ sound and rolls his eyes.

“Oh my god, shut _up_!” Thug #1 shakes Travis again, hard enough his teeth clack together.

When his head stops spinning, he notices the way Wes is glaring at the thug. He makes a _Not now, not yet_ face. Wes reluctantly settles.

He’s not sure who’s more grateful when they’re thrown in the tiny room with the metal door, him or the thugs. The door slams shut, a single pair of footsteps moving down the hall (Travis feels sorry for the unlucky thug stuck on guard duty. _Not_.), and then there’s silence.

“Well,” he says cheerfully, “that went well.”

Wes growls, eyes going black, and snaps the ropes around his wrists like they’re made of paper. He does the same for Travis’s bonds, then turns and contemplates the heavy metal door.

“Remember, Wes,” Travis chides, coming up beside his partner, “We still need to find those girls, so you can’t just kick the door down. I know it’s tough for you, but you gotta be subtle here.”

“Have I ever told you how _not_ funny you are?”

“You just don’t appreciate my humor, baby.”

“Humor is _one_ word for it.” Wes scowls at the door some more, hands on his hips, then nods decisively. “Okay. This will work.”

“What’s gonna work?” Travis asks.

And then Wes disappears. Travis gapes at the empty space where his partner had been standing.

He’s still gaping minutes later when there’s a meaty ‘thud!’ in the hall and the door swings open. Wes stands there, not a hair out of place, Thug #2’s gun in his hands as he stands over the man’s prone body.

Travis continues to gawp at his partner. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You can _teleport?_ How long have you been able to do that?”

“It’s really not important—”

“No, more pressing is why haven’t you ever done that _before?_ ” If Travis could teleport…well, let’s just say he can think of at least half a dozen scenarios that would have turned out a _lot_ differently. If Wes has been holding out on him…

Wes sniffs archly, nose in the air. “It’s a very delicate task that requires great skill and concentration. Not everyone can do it.”

“I don’t know, Wes, seems like teleporting would be a pretty useful skill for a demon to have.” And haven’t there always been those stories of demons popping in and out and freaking people out?

Travis has never seen Wes pop in and out of anywhere. Wes walks all the time and drives a Chrysler to work.

No one can translate Wes-speak the way Travis can, and all of a sudden ‘great skill and concentration’ take on a whole new meaning.

Travis grins. “You’re really crappy at all the magic woo-woo stuff, aren’t you? I bet _that’s_ why you won’t use your telekinesis in the field. You’re just not that good at it.” 

Wes’s eyes flash, and he growls, “Shut up.” But the tips of his ears are red, which means Travis totally hit the bullseye.

“My god, that’s hilarious.” Travis snickers and steps over Thug #2’s prone body and into the hall. “What did you even _do_ in Hell if you couldn’t do the magic stuff?”

The look Wes gives him could melt paint. “I was a fantastic contract writer.”

Travis, who is pretty much immune to almost all of Wes’s looks, accepts the gun Wes hands him. “This is hilarious. You’re the most half-assed demon I’ve ever met.”

Wes rolls his eyes and starts down the hall. “Shut _up_. Don’t we have some girls to save or something?”

Travis hurries to catch up, getting into the zone. 

It’s still hilarious, though.

\---

5.

\---

Wes is in a bad mood, so rather than knocking politely, he kicks open the door and stomps inside. Not exactly the best idea, because that makes the twitchy gangbangers leap up and open fire. Travis, who on days like this has about three ounces more common sense than his partner, waits until the gunfire comes to a halt before poking his head around the doorway. When no shots come zinging by him, he creeps inside, gun at the ready.

“LAPD,” he calls, eyeing the shaken gangbangers. Then he glances over at his partner. “You okay?”

Wes is scowling down at his shoulder, finger poking through a neat little hole in the dark cloth. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

Travis winces. “Oh, hell, you guys shouldn’t have done that…” Because if Wes was in a bad mood _before_ , then _this_ is just gonna suck.

His partner’s head snaps up, eyes going a cold, shiny black. “Do you _know_ how much this suit cost?!” he snarls, taking a step forward.

That’s when the bangers scream and panic and scatter like rats. Sometimes Travis forgets that _most_ people live in a world where demons aren’t exactly a common occurrence. Of course, since Wes’s initial entrance was greeted by gunfire, the screaming and panicking is only accompanied by more, and things get a little hectic after that.

They get their guys, of course, because these poor bastard weren’t expecting _Wes_ to come storming their castle, and there’s very little that will stop Wes if one is not prepared. Which is how, hours later, Travis comes to be down in the morgue, easing himself up onto one of Jonelle’s tables.

“Ow,” he groans, “Ow, ow, ow.” 

“Oh, stop whining, you big baby,” Wes grumbles from where he lies, facedown on the other table as Jonelle digs a bullet from his back. “You weren’t even shot.”

“Excuse you, who’s the one who got thrown ten feet across the room? Oh yes, it was me.” Travis winces, hands pressed against the bruises lining his back, and silently curses his partner.

“I also kept a bullet from going through your stupid face.” 

“And believe me, I appreciate that. But the fact of the matter is, hitting a wall after being thrown ten feet is going to hurt me a lot more than a few bullets will hurt you.” Because Travis is a vulnerable, squishy human, prone to bruises and cuts and broken bones, whereas Wes is…not. And while Travis appreciates how Wes remembers that and saves him from life-threatening things that wouldn’t even bother the demon, he does wish Wes would take a little more _care_ while saving his life.

He may have said this last bit aloud, because Wes glowers at him and his eyes flicker-flash black. “I _saved_ your _life_ , you idiot,” he snaps, rising up on his elbows, but before he can say anything else Jonelle pushes him back down.

“If you want these bullets out, then stop moving,” she barks, which makes Wes settle back on the table with a grumble. “For the record, you’re both idiots,” she adds.

“He’s a bigger idiot than I am,” Wes mutters into his elbow. _That_ just starts a round of bickering that has Jonelle rolling her eyes and making annoyed comments about working with children.

It also has the benefit of keeping Travis’s mind off his bruises and all the ways he’s so much more vulnerable than his nigh-invincible partner, which is always a plus.

\---

+1.

\---

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately.” Wes narrows his eyes suspiciously Travis’s way. “What’s wrong with you?”

Travis rolls his eyes. “Your concern is touching, Wes. I get all warm and tingly inside.”

“Haha.” Wes turns into the parking space and turns off the car. “What’s going on?”

“Oh look, this is my stop. See you tomorrow.”

The locks snap shut before his hand hits the door handle. Travis sighs and rests his forehead against the window. “Can’t this wait? Until tomorrow? Or…never?”

Wes’s silence answers that pretty definitively. Travis sighs again and thumps his head against the window a few times. That doesn’t do much of anything but make his head hurt.

“Travis,” Wes says, in maybe the gentlest voice Travis has ever heard him use outside of, like, life or death situations. “What’s wrong with you?”

And Travis knows that’s just Wes’s socially awkward way of showing concern, he _knows_ that, but the wording leaves a lot to be desired and it hits him all in a rush, _what’s WRONG with you?_

“Everything,” Travis snaps, whirling on his partner. “Everything is wrong with me, okay? Can I go now?”

Wes rears back with what on anyone else’s face would be mild alarm. “What? What do you mean, _everything?_ ”

The locks stay stubbornly in place. Travis hits his head on the window a few more times. “It’s…look, you remember last week when that wall fell on you and you threw it off and it flew like six feet?”

“Yes…”

“And you remember a couple days ago when Dietz ticked you off, so you made him spill his coffee down his shirt from across the room?”

“Yeah. So?” Clearly, Wes has no idea where this is going, but god, it’s all so obvious to Travis.

“So!” He throws his hands up, frustrated and upset, all of it building up. “So it was really cool! You can move stuff with your mind and you hardly ever get hurt and if you really concentrate you can _teleport_. It’s all _really fucking cool_ and I’m—”

He cuts himself off, takes a breath and runs his hand over his face. “It’s not that I want to be a demon or anything. That’s not it at all. But you’ve got all these awesome abilities, and compared to that I’m just…” He fumbles, grasping for the right words. “I’m just so _human_.”

Wes doesn’t say anything. Travis subtly tries the doors again; nope, still locked tighter than Fort Knox. He risks a glance at his partner, but that’s no help. Wes’s face is utterly, inscrutably blank.

He shifts and tries the door again. “Look, it’s not a big deal, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about. In the morning I’ll be—”

“You have a soul.”

The words, little more than a soft murmur, do more to shut him up than shouting could have. Wes turns to him, jaw tight, and in the split second before his eyes go black, the pain in that icy blue gaze takes Travis’s breath away, an agony so intense, so ceaseless he doesn’t have the words.

“You have a soul, Travis.”

His voice is flat, inflectionless, but that’s as much a mask as his black eyes, and Travis is going to cry in about three seconds. He takes a shaky breath and does what he always does when things get too heavy.

“Well,” he says lightly, “It’s not like I’m doing much with it…”

“Don’t joke,” Wes says, and Travis snaps his mouth shut. “What I wouldn’t give…”

The demon closes his eyes, swallows hard. Composing himself, or maybe fortifying himself.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re blue, pinning Travis to his seat with scorching intensity.

“There is _nothing_ wrong with being human, Travis. There aren’t enough special abilities to make up for it.”

Seriously, Travis is going to start bawling any fucking second if the mood doesn’t shift. This is just way too much for his fragile little heart to handle. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat and blinks hard a few times. “What about the telekinesis?”

Wes stares at him. “No,” he says slowly, “not even the telekinesis.”

“What about the superstrength? That’s pretty cool.”

_Now_ Wes gets it. The corner of his mouth curls up, just a little, and the locks finally disengage. “Get out of my car, Travis.”

Travis climbs out, leaning into the doorway. “How ‘bout the invulnerability? You gotta admit, that’s a pretty sweet deal.”

“Good _night_ , Travis.”

The car door closes, and Wes pulls out of the parking space. Travis watches him go, and okay, there’s nothing he can really do about his squishy human status, but he feels better about it than he has in a while.


End file.
